Deafening
by pharo
Summary: Pain is muffled by silence.


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Deafening

Author: Pharo

Disclaimer: 'Alias' belongs to J.J. Abrams, Bad Robot, Touchstone, and ABC.

Summary: Pain is muffled by silence.

Spoilers: "The Confession".

Feedback: pharo@newyork.com

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'It does not bother me to say this isn't love because if you don't want to talk about it then it isn't love and I guess I'm going to have to live with that…' ---Counting Crows, _'Anna Begins'_

She comes during rainy nights when the water pounds hard on his lawn and the tree in his backyard sways to it's own silent dance. She comes when the only thing that lights up the neighborhood is the deafening streak of white light during the storm.

When he hears the knock on his door, he thinks that the weathermen are right again. The storm comes and she comes with it. A shivering bundle soaked from head to toe with water with that look in her eyes. The eyes that seek out his own and plead with him. They ask, "once more," and what other choice does he have but to let her in?

He gathers her up, picks up the pieces of herself she drops on the way to his living room---a smile from years ago, a laugh that even she has forgotten---and tells her that he'll take care of her.

They sit on his couch, wrapped in blankets. 

Sometimes they stare at the warm fire, whose crackling is the only thing that surpasses the deafening silence. Never another word except the initial, "we're fine" he speaks with his eyes. She never bothers to say a word. It's one of their unspoken rules. Don't talk: no pressure of the idle chitchat or providing the answers to uncomfortable questions.

At times when she's not sullen, when the silence doesn't seem as deafening, they play chess. It appears strange to him the lengths she goes to protect her pawns. She sacrifices her bishops, knights, and sometimes even her queen if it's necessary. All to protect an insignificant piece such as the pawn---the worker meant to do the jobs for the higher pieces. She spends her time to keep the pawn, which is meant to sacrifice its life, alive. This practically guarantees her loss, but sometimes, he lets her win.

Other times, they sit in front of his television (muted, of course). Once, it was Martha Stewart classifying the types of honey that could be found in her backyard. Sometimes, it's a documentary on the different types of trees found in some forest. Other times, it's tips on getting taxes done faster. Always, it's a program that doesn't involve much thinking or require the formation of opinions of any sort. 

When it boils down to it, all the things they do are acts to pass the time until the rain stops or she leaves (sometimes it's a combination of both).

It usually doesn't occur to him that maybe he's being used. In fact, he welcomes her silence, basks in the fact that she comes to _him_ for whatever it is that drives her to his little living room. He spends the entire night watching her with careful eyes. He waits for her to break, knowing that eventually, she is bound to fall apart. He is not pessimistic by nature, but he takes this as a fact. He wonders what it is that she runs from. What is it about the rain that scares her so much that she has to run to his house (she never brings her car)? Many times, he almost forgets about the rules and opens his mouth to ask, but he quickly shuts it on the brink of the question forming. He justifies his silence with the fact that every one has their demons and hers require his help to purge them for the time being.

She spends hours at his house like this. Sometimes, they even fall asleep on his couch. Her eyes slowly droop until they close. Only then does he succumb to rest. 

She always leaves as quietly as she comes in. The last drops of rainwater fall from the trees and she gathers up her things and slowly walks out. There are times when he wants to object to her departure. He wants to ask her to stay for dinner (or breakfast if it boils down to that) or ask for her help on his newest inane article. He struggles to find any excuse to have her stay a little longer, maybe even have an exchange of conversation among them. Yet, he always finds himself sticking to the rules and keeping his mouth closed to watch her walk silently in and out of his life. After she's gone, the quiet seems too loud. It presses against him on all sides and he leaves as quickly as she does. He doesn't allow himself to chase after her, but rather slows himself long enough to get into his car and drive to the track. He convinces himself that the certain need to run is not because of withdrawal but just a wish to stay physically fit.

The lies he tells himself as he runs. The fake promises he makes of asking her what it was they were doing, what she was hiding from. He nods in silent agreement with himself that next time, he'll break the rules and the silence will be lifted. Next time…

But next time he just shuts his mouth once more and they play another game of chess. She leaves and he runs. He visits her house at night and conversation occurs like normal. They joke with Francie about how she'll never master the skill of simulated football video games. She tells him that he only comes over for the wine and he doesn't deny it. They laugh and make plans for dinners that she never gets to have because of pressing bank business.

He goes home and thinks that he'll never be able to ask her. Never break the cycle that will eventually end up hurting him as well. She runs, but now he runs too. He doesn't know from what they are running, but knows that if he doesn't ask, they're going to run so far that eventually, the world around them will just fade away. 

He prepares himself for the impact of realizing the world is gone. He is willing to go down with her until she comes to him that night.

It deviates from their usual pattern. There's not much rain---mostly darkness---when he hears the doorbell. He peers through and his blinds and sees her standing there. A bundle of water that is soaked by tears, not raindrops.

He thinks that she's never cried the previous times, but begins to doubt it. Tears can always mingle with rain and produce the pain that he sees when she comes to him. He lets her in and the routine is the same. He leads her into the living room and begins to retrieve the blankets when he stops in his tracks.

He doesn't know if it's the lack of heavy rain or her tear-smeared face that forces him to turn around and stop. He doesn't know what compels him to break the rules and stop running.

"What are you running from?" he asks. 

He feels the sharp glass of silence shatter as his voice resonates through the cave they've built. He sees her body stiffen and her head turn to look at him with the horrified expression on her face.

His mind spins with the question of what came over him? What he has done?

Her eyes search for his and meeting them, they travel from left to right as if reading a newspaper. The pain of betrayal that he sees in her eyes forces him to look away and he can't help but break the rules even more.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know what…I didn't mean to ask," he whispers in desperation, but he knows perfectly well that he _did_ want to ask. He _needed_ to ask.

She looks around as if the room has suddenly become a box (the image of a mime appears in his brain). She looks at him with the horror of one who has become imprisoned and he's not sure what to do. 

"Please---"

He sees her face start to stain with even more tears and his first impulse is to sit down at the couch and rub her back. Hold her hand and say---say what? They don't _say_ anything and suddenly he realizes _why_ she comes to him. 

Silence is comfort. It's so painfully obvious as the basis of all to him now. He doesn't have to say anything. She doesn't have to say anything. It's almost as if they are no longer there, but rather just draw comfort from the now-ruptured silence. Whatever she hides from, the silence hides her. It covers her in his worn blue blanket and there's nothing to destroy the peace. There are no words to shatter dreams or place doubts in a head struggling to get by.

"Sydney," he starts to say when her head snaps up and he realizes that he's made another mistake.

Names. They never used names. They never had the need for names. But now, she is Sydney using him, Will, and he can see the fear at what she's become in her eyes.

"I don't care if you don't want to tell me. It's ok."

But nothing is ok anymore. The way she shakes as she grabs her jacket makes him wants so badly to hold her still until it passes by or until the world is still once again.

She walks to the door and turns the knob when he sticks his hand out to grab her arm.

"Wait for the rain to stop," he pleads.

She shakes her head.

"It's already gone." A click of the door that closes behind her. 

He is left to drown in the silence that engulfs even the most deafening storms.


End file.
